


Blank Canvas

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Artists, Bohemians, M/M, Paris (City), Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-11
Updated: 2009-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-23 14:33:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9661532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: End of the nineteenth century Paris: impecunious artist Merlin meets rich Englishman Arthur Pendragon. Their love goes against family and convention. Based on a kmm prompt and my take on the Moulin Rouge theme.





	

“Et bien, oui, c’est … remarquable, mais trop cher,” the potential buyer says, shrugging his shoulders and scrunching his nose as he contemplates Merlin’s latest painterly attempt. Of course he wouldn’t buy, Merlin reflects. This man is a stolid member of the Parisian bourgeoisie, a pot bellied, balding, monocled individual who’s as out of place in Merlin’s dingy, cramped, damp Montmartre garret as Beluga caviar on the table of a Midi farmer. Merlin knows what the man is looking for, a safe realistic portrait, a stolid reproduction of middle-class values. Nothing too outré, nothing that hints at other, less salubrious truths. A young girl looking at a vase full of flowers, that’s what Monsieur Moreau, banker, wants. He wishes to invest in a solid piece to hang over his mantelpiece and not Merlin’s loose impressions on canvas, no nightscapes depicting the low-life of the city’s banlieu, no blotched face of a forlorn prostitute, no fear, no dissolution, no immoral piece that is all about splashes of colour and weird angles.

“No.” Moreau says it in Merlin’s native tongue this time. “Maybe next time. A portrait of my wife, perhaps?”

Merlin nods, shoulder’s cramping and locking, he’s so tense. “Of course,” he says, as he leads Moreau to the door. The banker looks past Merlin’s at Merlin’s garret and the disgust in his eyes is easily made out; he’s obviously taking in the damp stains, the peeling paint, the lack of decent furniture, space, light, and he’s also contemplating the unmade bed in sight. Moreau seems to guess that Merlin’s bed has seen quite a lot of traffic: girls from the nights and bars Merlin frequents, pretty tourist boys, fellow artists, down-trodden models, down on their luck writers, maitresses. Merlin has behaved quite decadently recently. The rumpled sheets are a symbol he likes. It’s where his life has gone in the pursuit of art.

Moreau swallows, looking like a fish out of water, all goggle-eyed, secures his hat on his head, which he tilts in dismissal of Merlin and his low-life quarters, and quickly marches down the stairs as if he can’t be out of this den of ill repute soon enough. Merlin lets him go, closes his eyes and makes his decision. Enough. He can’t live like this. Art is no sustenance; he often goes hungry and his clothes are in a sad state, ratty and fraying and no use against the cold. He’s stranded and alone and he’ll never be acknowledged. He’ll never sell. He’ll never be called an artist; his portraits will never be on display in a Rive Gauche gallery. His are the fumblings of a naïve idiot who’s been given a brush to colour reality with. What he sees and reproduces, his world, is not what the general public desires to get acquainted with. He’ll drown his book and his despondency in alcohol.

He picks up his coat, and a woollen scarf that has two holes in it and sets out to brave the pungent wintry weather. It’s off to the Folies Bergeres with him; the last night before he settles down and becomes a respectable citizen again, looking for a normal job.

 

****

 

It’s pretty ballerinas wrapped in tight revealing bodices and strata of tulle: long-legged, made up waifs that play at being sirens. It’s a heavy cloud of smoke from the pipes and cigarettes of elderly gentlemen that form the crowd. The clientele. It’s raucous laughter and loud voices, cultured voices, accented exotic voices, enticing alluring ones, the voices of vendors from across the Boulevard. It’s loud music that seeks its frantic fulfilment like a lust-mad lover in the night.

A girl, her name’s Angelique -- her stage name -- approaches the man sitting next to Merlin and murmurs in his ear. The man blushes scarlet and Merlin chuckles to himself before downing his fourth stiff drink. To Oblivion. He’s bidding good-bye to his magic, to his art, tonight.

He watches the scene next to him unfold. Angelique seduces her prey, a brush of fingers, and a wink. She hovers too close; she presses herself against his side. The man sips at his whisky and after a brief moment of hesitation, gets up, staggering, and follows her.

The man sitting next to Angelique’s prey swivels on his stool, follows his companion and Angelique with his eyes, stunning blue and wide, and exclaims outraged, “Oh, come on, Owain! You can’t dump me here for that!”

“Sorry, Arthur,” the slurred voice comes. The Owain individual turns for a moment, hands outstretched and says, “She’s a nymph.”

Arthur, beautiful Arthur, shakes his head, and says, “Take heed,” but he turns around and stares at his empty glass, which is Merlin’s cue to intervene.

“And that’s for friendship,” Merlin says. He’s not inebriated and, if he is, he doesn’t care. He wants to look at the handsome man, a man he could paint, and so his mouth loosens and he forgets about being shy and down on his luck.

“I wonder if he’ll get Syphilis.” Arthur flushes. Although it’s subtle, there’s an acknowledgment there that Arthur is above this establishment and the things that go on in it. Merlin watches him: the lines of his nose and jaw, his body build and bone structure, the way the artificial lighting plays with his hair. Merlin’s eyes trail down: Arthur has strong hands, clean hands, the hands of someone who doesn’t do a lot of menial work. His clothes look good on him and are fashionable but not over-stated.

When he finds he likes what he sees, Merlin says, “Angelique’s safe,” and hums a little, still tasting his drink on his tongue.

Arthur’s nostrils flare. He gets it. “So you’re a habitual patron, I deduce.” The young man’s tones reveal his education. Not many of the people Merlin knows speak like that. He’s a boy from a good family.

“More or less. I painted their placards. I enjoy a free run of the place,” Merlin explains non-committally. He doesn’t even know why he opens up. He wants to bed him, Arthur, yes, but it’s not that.

Arthur moves and takes the seat next to Merlin at that. “I saw them. You’re an artist then and gifted.” Is that admiration Merlin’s hearing? It’d be the first time. Most look down on him. Because of that Merlin answers, “That’s a good one,” feeling defeated.

Arthur studies him but doesn’t press, which makes Merlin like him all the more. “What are you doing here?” Merlin ventures, pointing at Arthur and his crisp, nicely pressed clothes, combed hair and suave tones.

Arthur doesn’t answer, but his eyes bore into Merlin. It takes Merlin’s breath away. It might have been the frank appraisal, the look of honest but diverted appreciation or the smile that suddenly appears on Arthur’s lips, making him look so vivid and alive, a bright shock of colour on untouched canvas, but Merlin unconsciously leans in, allured.

“I’d like to see your paintings,” Arthur proposes. And Merlin realises that that is not a come on or an advance. It might be, but it isn’t. Arthur’s truly interested.

“I have tons of them. Tons,” Merlin says, and maybe he’s drunk or out of his mind. “And you know why? Because nobody thinks they’re worth anything. So why would you want to see them?”

“Because I think you’re remarkable,” Arthur says. and Merlin winces because the other man’s used the same words Moreau picked earlier. However Arthur speaks so plainly that his honesty is refreshing. So his adjective choice might be stilted but the man behind it is anything but. Merlin has been lied to often enough and he appreciates Arthur’s candour. It’s… different.

“Come to my place.” Merlin wants to bite on his tongue next.

Arthur looks around, at the bar, the assembled clients, at Merlin. His eyes blaze for an instant and it’s clear to Merlin that he’s weighing the offer and has caught the implications. Merlin doesn’t return his stare; he doesn’t want to force him, but if Arthur says ‘yes’ -- If he says yes, this is Merlin’s last night of Bohème.

“Yes,” Arthur says.

 

****

 

The door wails when Merlin pushes it open to usher Arthur in.

Innately sure of himself, Arthur wanders inside Merlin’s top-story little hide-hole, not waiting for an invitation. As he stands, he’s framed by the moonlight, the moonlight that comes in from the half-open window that looks over a gas-lit ruelle Merlin knows like the back of his hand. Because of the natural illumination, all Merlin sees is lines and light and shadows, contours and game upon game of shade and pale radiance. Perpendicular strokes and dark smudges of charcoal on grainy paper. Chiaroscuro.

He shudders.

Merlin freezes, takes stock of everything, and when Arthur notices his hesitation, he makes for a rickety table and the oil-lamp. When Merlin has conjured enough light to see by, he crosses the room and joins his new acquaintance where he stands stiff and proud in the middle of the cluttered, dirty room Merlin calls home. The man has his hat in his hands and is staring enraptured at one of Merlin’s earliest works: the blurred body of the florist’s daughter caught as she sells tulips -- red ones from Holland -- on market day. It’s bad. Merlin inhales. He’s chosen the bad one.

Arthur says nothing, and Merlin takes a step back. He holds his breath, this man’s judgement somehow important. Arthur files past Merlin’s portraits and stops when he sees something that seems to suit his taste. The first one he lingers on is a quick study Merlin never thought would become anything, and then it’s the portrait of a mawkish, starved urchin Merlin likes because he worked on it when his life was bright, golden hope, and lastly Arthur pauses before the broad brushstrokes that form the shape of a nude model’s body. Merlin’s dearest painting.

“It’s light and airy…” Arthur says, articulating each word carefully as if assessing their correctness and value, school-boy voice out to play

“You're amazing at rendering the … luminosity of her body,” is what Arthur decides to settle on. There's an earnestness in the attempt that fills Merlin with a warm feeling.

To give something in return and because sullen silence would be bad form despite the dashed hopes and fear of ridicule, Merlin replies,“Light has a mood.” And maybe that’s banal but that’s how he sees it. The hand follows the eye and Merlin sees -- saw light.

“You slept with her.”

“Yes.” Merlin acknowledges that with the ease of someone who doesn't question his own actions.

Probably enticed or intrigued by that, Arthur turns on his feet, eyes bright, and lets his hat fall to the floor. Breathing like a bull in the arena, he strides towards Merlin, comes to stand face to face with him and abruptly stops.

Merlin can’t help looking back at him, inhaling quickly. He can’t touch him; he can’t reach out. Arthur is too perfect and untarnished and he doesn’t belong in here, with Merlin’s mould-eaten walls and squalid surroundings. He'd have to make the first move.

Arthur gets that and he reaches out, darts quickly forward, reeling Merlin in by the neck, and presses his lips, firm and dry, against Merlin’s as if he were entitled to it. Merlin tastes Arthur’s breath but doesn’t otherwise move. And then Arthur's mouth opens and yes, yes, yes. Merlin wants to. He has wanted to since he saw him. Merlin’s lips part and he sucks on Arthur’s upper lip; tastes him truly, chasing the mellow taste of an alcoholic beverage and something more primal that is as intoxicating as absinthe.

And then it’s deeper, lewder, and frantic as Arthur drinks him in, tongues meeting and tangling, teeth worrying each other's lips only to soothe each tiny bite with a flick of tongue. It’s wet and open-mouthed filth. Merlin licks and laps and Arthur starts to shake.

It’s three large steps to the bed and Arthur shoves him on it as if he has no time for niceties. They wrest each other out of their clothes, both quivering, tearing, pulling, and slipping out of garments that pool down at the foot of the bed. And then they’re naked. Flesh on flesh. Legs twine, bodies rock onto each other. There are caresses and kisses all over: necks, calves, knees, belly, groin. Sheets tangle beneath them. Fingers seek purchase on sweat-slick skin.

Arthur cries out when Merlin pushes into him and Merlin stills, looking down at a face that is both lust dazed and trusting. Merlin stills, Arthur’s legs wrapped around the narrow span of his hips, and takes his time to feel himself go mad, throbbing and longing and wanting to remember those frank eyes that seem to be cherishing him. And then he thrusts in and Arthur wraps a muscled arm around Merlin’s shoulder and pulls him down.

Arthur kisses Merlin’s clavicle as Merlin bottoms out. Even though his arms are trembling and he can barely brace himself, Merlin starts pushing in. And all the while all Merlin can hear is their combined frenetic panting; all he can smell is the taste of their shared sweat. Bodies contorting and writhing on the bed, the unmade bed from before. Arthur crushes Merlin to him and Merlin tries to stroke him from the inside, seeking the right angle of penetration till Arthur moans and groans. The pace becomes frenzied. Arthur’s hands splay over the small of Merlin’s back and then he starts kneading lower down, spurring Merlin on as he breathes out slack-jawed so that Merlin can feel his breath tickling his neck.

Driven out of his mind by the drunken longing, Merlin hips jerk and stutter, out of synch. Merlin works a hand in between them but soon he has to leave Arthur to see to himself because Merlin’s dying, wet sounds coming out of his mouth, obscene little ahs and ohs and then he almost blacks out, spilling inside his partner and crumbling onto him like a sand castle does when water has eroded its foundations.

When he can control his limbs again, he rolls onto his side and watches as Arthur, left a little in the lurch, strips his cock; pulls at it.

Arthur gazes at Merlin as he does so, and it’s lustful but it’s also something else Merlin can’t bear to think about. To be of use, Merlin’s hand wraps around Arthur’s so that Merlin can help bring him off. When Arthur comes, he does on a sigh, flooding both their hands. When he’s done, Merlin licks his own come stained hand clean right under Arthur's eyes.

There’s another kiss if only because Merlin wants Arthur to taste himself. This one is different, carnal and deep, but it’s not furious. If the world was perfect, they could even get to know each other.

Kissing over, Arthur cups his cheek. There is a soft, enchanted expression in Arthur's eyes no artist could really capture and Merlin remembers, obviously too late, that he has not introduced himself.

“I’m Merlin,” Merlin says, realising they know so little of each other. He feels sheepish and he blushes. He hasn’t felt so light-hearted in a long time.

Arthur laughs, carefree, sprawling indecently all over Merlin’s bed, stretching his arms over his head. As simple as that, no second thoughts.

“Hello, Merlin,” he says mock-huskily.

 

****

Dawn is grey light seeping in from the tiny window perched under the slate sloping roof. Dawn is absence of colour on washed-out sheets. A muted palette. A dust mote dance, polka lively, can-can merry. Dawn is sober cobalt blue perceived from a distance, there where the buildings are sparser and Paris' sprawling chaos gives way to the Montmartre's mills and the peacefully green countryside beyond. Dawn is the last moment of stillness before the eruption of a swirl of movement, when time freezes and you catch its composition before it explodes in new bursts of energy. It explodes and becomes another busy day, hawkers calling, middle class men off to work, fair dames at home, the little seamstress at her window, the grisette waking next to her lover on her bed of sin.

As Merlin does.

He watches Arthur wake too, lashes fluttering, naked, powerful body stretched, sleep lax, onto tangled bed linens.

Merlin's mouth is dry, his body cold, covers off, trapped beneath Arthur's legs.

“Don't you have to... go to work?” Merlin asks. He's waiting for the man to flee, the other shoe to drop. Arthur's to well-dressed and soft spoken to be able to fit in the surroundings he's in right now. He'll soon find that indulging in a night of pleasure is not worth the discomfort of waking up in a place like this or the hassle of having to hide where he's been when he next chats with his upper-class comrades when sitting in a Saint Germain café.

Arthur yawns and shakes his head, “No, I have nowhere to be.”

“So you'll--?”

“Stay a bit if you don't mind.” Arthur plants a wet buss on Merlin's gaping mouth and burrows under the sheets, covering his nakedness. Arthur relaxes, smug as a big cat, a dozing lion, and Merlin is surprised to find that Arthur won't go and won't run.

That is the first morning, but it's not the last morning Merlin finds himself waking next to the man met at the Bergeres. Merlin never asks how long Arthur plans to stay and never questions his comings and goings. Arthur just appears on Merlin's threshold and makes himself at home, never hinting at where he's been, what he's done, never dropping a friend's name or mentioning acquaintances, neighbourhoods. He has no fixed hours and therefore, Merlin suspects, no job or not one that requires regular appearances at appointed places. Arthur carves himself a space into Merlin's life and fits in in the most surprising of ways. Arthur doesn't seem to care about the nude models he walks in on, or the prostitute from the Carrousel Merlin paid to paint. Arthur just pushes Merlin on the bed afterwards and is hungry and proprietorial, till his eyes loose focus and he's spent and panting so that he has to rest his head on Merlin's thighs, his hands skimming lazily over Merlin's belly. In the same way, he doesn't care about Merlin's shady past; on the contrary, he wants to listen to the stories Merlin is willing to share. Merlin tells Arthur the story of his loves, the stories that have made up his life or the ones that he's heard of and that have left a mark: the neighbour who died in an alcoholic stupor, the girl who drowned herself because she was pregnant, the one who married a respectable tailor and moved to the South where she could see the sea from her window.

 

****

 

That is how Arthur learns where Merlin's from and why he's in Paris.

Merlin doesn't believe it -- this singular winter spell he hesitates to call a relationtship -- will last or that Arthur will be here when the adventure's over: sharing in the seedy life of Paris' underbelly is easy when you can drop it at a moment's notice. Merlin has heard of the type, the adventure greedy, before and he tends to classify Arthur as just such a specimen of humanity. This has to be a foible. Arthur is Arthur and Merlin doesn't even mind the fact that he ignores the man's surname and real identity. He's fairly sure that Arthur would have given him more if he didn't intend to disappear one fine day. True credentials are great signifiers.

It's two blissful months, really. Arthur becomes Merlin's muse, not by sitting for a portrait, but because he encourages Merlin, looks at his art as if it is something to be valued and because he takes the time to appreciate it as no else has before.

“It's because you're bedding me that you say that,” Merlin says cynically one of those first mornings.

“You're magic, Merlin. I don't know how you don't know that. You'll be great.” The tone is arrogant, as if Arthur is the only one who has realised the obvious, as if he's found a truth everyone should bow to.

So, Merlin doesn't give up his art, but literally paints his days: the Bois escapade, when Arthur had laid his head on Merlin's lap and read from The Desdichado in his imperfect, English accented French that still sounded lovely to hear: (“Je suis le ténébreux, le Veuf, l'inconsolé. Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie,” he'd quoted, trying to sound ominous while talking about lost, doomed loves). The landscape they'd observed finds its way in one of Merlin's pieces and becomes Merlin's new favourite. The boat trip day, full of laughter, translates itself into colour and textured layers on canvas. The out of Paris excursion is one of Merlin's fondest memories: goat cheese on a flat slice of bread, country inn, the sun going down, orange fire ball across the horizon.

The nights -- the nights are melting-hot, scorching passion, bodies taken and given, kisses stolen and gifted. Merlin learns everything there is to know about Arthur and lets Arthur play his body like a virtuoso courting his instrument. They're savage and filthy; they are gentle and lazy. There's nothing they don't try, however strange or outrageous. Hands run everywhere and memorise features and contours and shapes. They mark each other. They sometimes spend whole days in bed, not bothering to dress, wandering around Merlin's garret in the nude, hidden away from drab reality and day to day life: queues at Les Halles, and sane time-tables. They wake up at midday and kiss and fondle and trash the bed by night. Sometimes Merlin thinks he has corrupted Arthur and sometimes Merlin thinks Arthur's the winner because Merlin's falling and dreaming again.

One day Arthur says, “If I could draw you...” eyeing him hungrily.

“But you're terrible; your draw stick figures. I've seen you.”

“But I'm a connoisseur,” Arthur says.

“That's what you like to say. Truth however--”

“I discovered you! Which means I have excellent taste,” Arthur insists. He's still got that educated, spoilt boy tone of voice, but Merlin knows Arthur has a huge heart hidden there beneath it. He doesn't say it in so many words and Arthur keeps secrets from Merlin, but it's there in his actions, the way he's so free with Merlin, who's a relative stranger with whom he shares stolen moments in time.

Till the day he walks in, two leather cases in tow, one per hand, and says, “Mind if I settle in here for a while?”

 

****

 

It's two months later. It's early afternoon but Merlin has just barely woken, recalled to his senses by the sweet scent of spring that wafts through the partly open window. He rolls over, smelling himself and Arthur on the pillow-case, just to find that Arthur's not in. He's very obviously not in bed, and Merlin's living space is so small and stripped down that there's nowhere he could have concealed himself if he was of a mind to. Merlin's questing gaze sweeps around the tiny flat to check that Arthur's things are still there. He doesn't do it because of his sense of mistrust, though he hasn't quite killed it yet, but he can't believe his luck or the reality of Arthur's presence in his life. Merlin sags against the pillow flattened behind his back when he finds that everything's still there, thrown haphazardly every which way. He passes a hand through his hair, closing his eyes. He's stupid.

Shaking himself, he plants his feet on the cold floor and rises, looking for a shirt. He finds one, maybe clean and maybe not, and puts it on, revelling in the feel of it. It's large on him and one of Arthur's. He looks around once again, trying to spot his discarded trousers, when he notices it: the envelope waiting for him on the wobbly nightstand. He goes and snatches it up, thinking: “This is the good-bye.” Arthur could have gone and left his random collection of clothes and objects behind. Things are replaceable.

He puts water on the boil on the stove before sitting down to open the letter. The envelope itself is not bulky and Merlin weighs it and plays with it, hands trembling a little. He waits and then rips the upper corner off, pulling out a carefully folded piece of paper. He smooths it out and what he finds is more infuriating than the farewell note he'd been expecting.

Merlin washes, has breakfast, stale sliced bread and apples, and gets dressed so that he won't smash something. He spends the early afternoon trying to sketch, but he comes up with rotten, bloated corpses surfacing and floating on the Seine and gives up. It's voluntarily morbid and just a reflection of his sour mood. He can't soar on that. Instead he's sinking fast.

It's hours before Arthur comes back, a freshly baked baguette under his arm.

Merlin is sitting on the bed, staring at the floor.

“What, no inspiration today?” Arthur queries, securing the piece of warm bread in the cupboard where it won't be eaten by errant, overfed rats.

Merlin rises, white-faced, probably looking like a spectre of vengeful fury. He marches back to his nightstand, opens the one drawer it's furnished with and fishes out the torn envelope. He lets it flitter to the floor and rasps out, “What is this? Tell me, Arthur?” He's furious and he doesn't know what to do with his body, always too gangly and awkward, which makes him even more furious because Arthur's smiling, confident and calm.

“You were about to give up when I met you. I know that,” Arthur says, as if what he's done is not something monumentally wrong.

“So you're keeping me? You're paying me for.. for?”

Arthur frowns. He squares his shoulders, jaw set. “No,” he says. “Not for that. Because you can't live off art. Because you're undernourished and deserve a chance to advertise your work, set up an exhibition. Because you have something, a gift, that needs to be appreciated, while I'm stinking rich and I've wasted so much money...” It's a flurry of words next. “On stupid things, things I didn't want or cherish, things I cast away in a huff and you have that talent and to me it's a drop in the ocean.”

“That's a fortune!” Merlin says, starting to pace up and down. He hides his hands under his armpits, slouching, because for the first time since Moreau he feels small and he's ashamed of who he is and what he hasn't managed to achieve.

“That's irrelevant,” Arthur says, intercepting Merlin and placing his hands on Merlin's bony shoulders. “I've never told you because, God, you're on a stubborn crusade against the bourgeoisie and I didn't know what you'd have done if you'd found out who I am.”

Merlin gapes, studying the lines on Arthur's brow. He counts them.

“My name is Arthur Pendragon and I'm the only son of his Grace the Duke of Richmond.” Arthur's voice twists the words 'his grace' sarcastically. “My mother was a French aristocrat, Ygraine du Bois. That's why I live here. I moved here to get to know her since she died when I was born. I came looking for her, a trace of her, and found you.”

Merlin can't take that all in. He comes from a small rural village that has no fame and no merit. He has no father and a hard working mother who's always battled to put food on their table ever since Merlin was little. Aristocrats are so distanced from the spectrum of things he understands that he has nothing whatsoever to compare the knowledge to. It's not his reality; he's read of noblemen in the papers and in novels but he has never met one and never thought he would. He'd known that Arthur was omitting things, but he had figured it would have been a little suburban house and a father who dabbles in the stocks. Not that. Never that.

“Shred it.”

“Merlin, no.”

“Shred it. I don't care about who you are. I don't understand why you'd choose to live here when you're hoarding fairy-like treasures at home, but if you have a grain of respect for me, you'll do it.” Merlin delivers that too quickly, like a volley of musket fire, looking Arthur in the eyes, willing him to understand, willing him to see.

Not flinching Arthur kneels, scoops up the envelope and the cheque it contains and tears it to tiny little pieces. He kisses Merlin's on the lips.

 

****

 

It's paradise regained. It's paradise regained, which means that it must soon be lost. The way it happens is frankly good enough for French melodrama, Merlin wryly thinks. He's been a spectator and he knows how they go down: there's the beautiful heroine, who is pure of heart but has no money. She meets the handsome young nobleman. All is perfect till the villain appears in the guise of a proud and hostile family member who wrecks their life and happiness and makes of the main characters a pair of star-crossed lovers. Merlin remembers the faux gilded tiers of cheap provincial theatres, the heavily made up actresses who play the fainting heroines and the rumbustious laughter that echoes through the pit and boxes when the villain, sporting an improbable moustache and exaggeratedely frilly clothes, waltzes past in the limelight, threatening the upheaval of the newly acquired order. Merlin recalls the inflated gestures and the mad chases on the creaking floorboards of a narrow stage that ought to represent the world. He's familiar with the orchestra's participation, the musical accompaniment, the over-loud sighs from the actors out-acting the finest passions. He has seen the gas lighting that makes the performers' fake moles and powdered faces look cadaverous and perverse.

So it's appropriately sensational.

It's appropriately loud and over the top.

There's a riding crop involved, which is thankfully not used.

It's carefully tailored Uther Pendragon kicking Merlin's door open and charging in like a man possessed. To give the Duke his due, he doesn't flinch when he beholds his only son lying naked on a bed: his son who's kissing another man passionately, no doubt as to what they've just done. A consummation devoutly to be wished.

“You'll come with me now, Arthur” the duke thunders, his gloved hands close around his crop, as if he wishes to use it. “Gather your clothes. We're sailing back to England.” He doesn't s spare Merlin's body a glance. Pendragon Senior's eyes are on Arthur.

Probably to spite his father, Arthur doesn't move and doesn't stop. He licks Merlin's mouth open, moans as theatrically as possible, and only then does he climb off the bed to face his sire. He stands, hands hanging at his side, no shame in him, none, though he's as bare as on the day he was born. To match him, Merlin doesn't slide under the sheets, though he wishes himself somewhere else. He doesn't want to witness the last act of this play. He knows how it goes down.

“Arthur!”

“I'm not deaf, father,” Arthur says.

“Then do as I say,” Uther says, more controlled now, though he keeps his gaze levelled at Arthur's forehead and his eyes don't look anywhere further down than his clavicles. “You can't take up abode with that … that profligate fortune hunter, disappear for months and indulge in such dubious pleasures meant to besmirch our honoured name.”

Arthur laughs a discordant laugh. It's stagey enough. “No, father. You can't order me around anymore. I've stopped begging for the scraps of your affection. I've stopped trying to live up to your unflinching standards. I'm not--”

“You've asserted your independence. Enough with the youthful rebellion.” Uther cuts his son off.

Merlin agrees and braces himself.

Unpredictably Arthur turns his head to look at Merlin and smiles. When he faces his father again he says,“It's not rebellion. I will do my duty by my family. I'll look after Morgana and the estates my mother left me. But you're a hypocrite and I'm not bending. I'm staying.”

“This is a whim!” Uther roars.

“You always say that when I don't dance to your tune.”

Uther throws a hand up in the air and fumes. “This is an order, Arthur. You're my son.” On the last word Uther's voice breaks. The duke coughs and clears his throat. “He is just an opportunist!” Uther Pendragon spits, pointing his crop in Merlin's general direction. “You think he loves you? Believe me, he doesn't. I know his ilk.”

Arthur shakes his head. “I'm in love with him.”

“You're a fool,” Uther says, scowling at the very walls of Merlin's garret. Not able to move Arthur, Uther concedes the field, knowing he can't drag a hostile twenty something anywhere unless he agrees to come. Uther is not the kind of man to engineer a scene that could make its way into the papers, thus implicating the glorious family name, judging by the man's desire to protect it. “This is not the last you'll hear from me,” he threatens before stepping out of the door he knocked off its hinges.

It's Vaudeville, Merlin believes.

 

****

 

The threat is executed anticlimactically. Merlin is sipping bad coffee at a corner café, watching people negotiating their way up the sloping street, memorising and attempting to capture the fleeting impressions of the play of the afternoon light on the multicoloured dresses of the milling crowd. The red woollen shawl of the old lady would be difficult to render. It's its thickness and the way that it's draped across the woman's shoulders that would be hard to tackle. He finds he wants to. He has new inspiration and his heart is glad for it. His goofy smiles are back in all their full glory. He's again the man his mother would recognize, a little less virtuous, but an optimist again.

He's sold a painting today and he's celebrating. It's a month's rent and it's a morale boost. Arthur's off somewhere, trying to convince a posh salon owner, whose nose is firmly soaring up in the air, Montgolfier style, that Merlin's better than Turner or David or Ingres. Merlin knows Lautrec, whom he's met at the Moulin, and thinks he himself is fated to sink into oblivion. He's happy though. The aromatic liquid scalds his tongue and he's reminded of home and childhood and the pleasure of diving headlong into something, prudence be damned.

Out of the blue, Uther Pendragon takes the vacant seat opposite him. He's not dressed to the nines as he was the other day, so he's evidently trying to blend in with crowd. He wouldn't wish to be spotted, would he?

“How much?” he asks, startling Merlin.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I've looked into your background,” Uther says. “You are a starving nobody with promiscuous habits. You are an alien in this city; can't even afford the fare back home on a bad day. Your mother's poor. How much would you want in order to tell Arthur that it's over between you?”

Merlin stares. He feels a certain kind of pity for this man who's metaphorically lost his son. There's the same hopeless quality to this rich man's behaviour that Merlin sees on the pasty faces of the mob of workers out of the faubourgs. They've lost their hope in a brighter tomorrow, drowning in debt and licentiousness because they have nothing else left to cling to. Uther Pendragon has lost his son's respect and he has no family to share his days with apart form his adopted daughter, Morgana. Merlin ignores the back story and won't ask Arthur, because Arthur's face clouds over like a mourning veil when he speaks of his father. So there's silence there.

“It's a good offer; the best you'll haver have,” the duke says. “Whatever Arthur has promised you or given you, I can double that. He has Ygraine's money but as long as I live my estate is mine and not his.”

“You want to buy me!”

“You stand to gain,” Uther says, fixing a cold stare on Merlin. Uther Pendragon is used to people conceding to his whims. “If I cut Arthur off because of this lark, you'll starve again along with him.”

Merlin laughs. “32,000 Francs."

Uther's lips curve up in a parody of a smile. He fumbles into his expensive coat's pocket, not taking off his gloves. This is a clinical transaction the duke's expecting to embark on. He extracts his cheque-book and is already rummaging for a pen.

“32,000 Francs,” Merlin says with absurd precision, “is the sum Arthur wanted to give me. He signed a cheque, much like you. Meant it as a present.”

Uther opens his mouth to speak; Merlin shushes him. Uther glares in return; he's clearly outraged by Merlin's lower-class outspokenness.

“And I told him to shred it. He did. I told your son once, and I'm telling you now. I can't be bought.”

Merlin pays for his coffee and ambles out of the café, whistling.

 

****

October comes again, all falling leaves and the fat Seine flowing fast under the monumental stone bridges. The Pont Neuf, which is the oldest, and the bridge built to glorify Napoleon's name are visible in the distance. The sky's overcast and threatening rain. Merlin and Arthur are out and don't care.

They're standing before the flying buttresses when Merlin, content as he's never been before, says it, blushing like a school boy before the girl whose tresses he pulled in school. “I love you.”


End file.
